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‘Beg pardon, sir?’ asked the sergeant, evidently mystified. The struggle had dislodged the white wimple, which was evidently too large for her, and her black hair broke free, whirling like a whiplash about her head as her hands curled into fists, coming up to beat at his chest, her little teeth bared for attack. Hitherto it had been qualified by her conception of all life as a compromise, by her new effort to be unexacting of life. I had never dreamed of such a friend as you. It is queer how ideas pop into one's head. ‘Can’t you trust me a little?’ His touch sent shivers running through her, but Melusine did not withdraw her hand.
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